


Everyone Always Blames it on Poots

by McBangle



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Excessive Drinking, Farting, Fluff and Humor, M/M, Minor Eric Bittle/Jack Zimmermann, Minor Snowy/Trainer, Providence Falconers, Swearing, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-27
Updated: 2017-03-27
Packaged: 2018-10-11 10:45:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10463103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/McBangle/pseuds/McBangle
Summary: Five times the Falconers blamed it on Poots... and one time he really was to blame.Not (just) fart jokes :)





	

**1.**

Hal “Fitzy” Fitzgerald is thrilled to have been drafted onto the Falconers in his rookie year. They may be an expansion team but they’ve had a great couple of seasons, a strong lineup, and a reputation for camaraderie and inclusion. Although, the massive Russian d-man giving Fitzy the side-eye from the locker next to his is starting to make Fitzy question that reputation.

“Great practice, everybody!” one of the Alternate Captains, Thirdy, tosses his towel in the general direction of the laundry bin, apparently oblivious to the fact that he missed it by, oh, at least three feet. “I think we’ve got the makings of a strong team this season. Maybe even a Cup-winning team,” he adds with a warm twinkle in his eyes. “I want you all to bring that energy back to the ice tomorrow. Marty and I are going to review tape of today’s practice with the coaches and–”

_Pfffffffft!_ The locker room fills with a foul stench.

“Alright, who pooted?” Thirdy asks, holding his nose.

“Rookie did it,” the Russian growls. “Right, rookie?”

“Uh… sorry!” Fitzy stammers.

“Tater, you have _got_ to stop hazing the rookies,” the goalie, Snowy, hits the Russian square in the face with a questionable-looking towel. “We all saw you eating golubtsi with extra beans at team breakfast.”

Tater laughs uproariously and smacks Fitzy on the back so hard that the rookie nearly falls over. “I’m liking this one! I’m name you Poots!”

_X_

**2.**

Fitzy – no, it’s Poots now – throws back another shot of vodka. Fuck. Two straight losses following their preseason opening win. And he still hasn’t gotten off the bench yet.

“Hey,” some Asian guy puts a hand on Poots’ shoulder. “You win some, you lose some. That’s what preseason is for. And you –” he takes the shot glass out of Poots’ hand, “– need to switch to water.”

“Who the fuck are you?” Poots squints at him.

The kid blushes. “Mike. Mike Chua. Stats intern. From Brown.”

“Okay, _intern_ ,” Poots pronounces that word as if it were an insult, “it’s nice and all that someone invited you to party with the players, but who the fuck do you think you are to cut me off?”

The intern snorts and stands his ground. “First of all, I’m pretty sure I’m the only one out of the two of us who’s old enough to legally order one of these.” He gestures at the confiscated shot glass. “And I’ve seen enough friends pass out drunk to recognize when someone’s had a few too many. Let’s just say I’m going my duty as your elder. And if you think you’re too cool to talk to people who aren’t players, you can just fuck the hell–”

“Okay, okay.” Poots raises his hands in surrender. “Got it, sorry, I was an asshole. Buy me another drink and I promise I’ll be nicer to you.”

“Nice try,” the guy smiles wryly. He’s actually not half bad-looking when he’s not grabbing Poots’ drink or lecturing him. “Look, why don’t you go splash some water on your face and freshen up, and if you act nice when you get back here, maybe I’ll buy you a Sprite.”

Poots rolls his eyes but, eh, the intern wasn’t totally off base. He probably should take a piss. He stumbles off his bar stool and takes a moment to right himself.

“That way.” The Asian guy points in the direction of the back hallway. Poots gives his head a shake and starts off in the direction of (he hopes) the men’s room.

It would really be nice if the bar would stop spinning and the floor would stay still.

“Hey, Poots! You want next round of darts?” Where the hell had Tater come from? The Russian d-man had somehow materialized to Poots’ right. Zimmermann is standing next to him, looking concerned. Probably about the loss. Didn’t Zimmermann have a reputation as a sore loser?

“Nah, man, I’m just going to take a piss.” Poots waves them away.

“Hah! You pass men’s room! Is back that way!” Tater points over Poots’ left shoulder.

Fuck. When the hell had he passed the rest room? This bar must be some kind of fuckin’ maze or something.

Suddenly Zimmermann has a hand on Poots’ shoulder. “Euh, you okay? Do you want me to walk you to the men’s room? Can I get you some water?”

“No man, I’m fine!” Poots shrugs Zimmermann off. “And why is everybody offering me water? I’m _fine_.” He glares at Zimmermann until Zimmermann backs off. “I know I’ve had enough. I’m just gonna drain the snake and then I’ll sit down somewhere and drink all the water and Sprite you and that intern guy wanna throw at me.” If Zimmermann looks a bit confused by that last statement, Poots doesn’t pay it any mind.

This time, Poots doesn’t take his eyes off of the door to the men’s room. He’s not going to lose his target a second time. And despite a few near-collisions with other bar-goers, he manages to make his way to the men’s room just fine, thankyouverymuch.

He wrinkles his nose as he steps into the dimly lit men’s room. God, is there some kind of law that bar rest rooms have to smell like stale urine? And really. Every time. _Every time_ he has to piss, do there need to be people making out right next to the urinal?

“Get a room, why don’t you? Some of us have to pee, you know.”

The two men stumble apart. Oh. Oh shit.

The trainer (Poots tries to place his name. Tim, maybe?) swipes his forearm across his mouth. Snowy looks panicked. “Look. Poots. That was…”

“…None of my business,” Poots reassures him. “It’s cool, no worries. I’ll, uh, give you two your privacy.”

He backs out of the restroom, flushing deeply.

And crashes right into Marty.

“Merde! Poots!” Marty holds his arms out in shock. His shirt is dripping with beer.

“Next time, try leaving the shitter _face_ -first,” Thirdy smirks.

“Ah, no, ‘ee was trying to christen the room with anovver fart!” Guy chortles.

“Poots, did you do this?” Snowy had apparently emerged from the rest room in the commotion. He gestures to Marty’s sopping shirt. “What a fuckin’ klutz!” He winks at Poots.

_X_

**3.**

Everyone has their pre-game rituals; Poots’ is dental hygiene. Cavity prevention is important all the time, but something about the idea of an unclean mouth on the ice is just… no. Before every game, he brushes his teeth and tongue with baking soda toothpaste (way too many people forget the tongue; that’s where the bad breath germs hide), flosses, gargles with mouthwash, and tops it off with a spray of breath freshener.

And he would certainly _never_ ruin his pre-game fresh breath with stinky cheese.

Now Guy, on the other hand… Guy is a cheese connoisseur. Guy, who went on and on and on during lunch about the Muenster cheese he’d been eating on a baguette. Guy, who _clearly_ had brought a take-out box onto the bus with him…

Four hours later, Falconers pile onto the bus, whooping and hollering after a perfect game against the Bruins. The victory celebration lasts approximately 0.5 seconds before they all smell it.

The smell from hell.

Something died on their bus. Something rancid. Something _evil_.

Zimmermann had been the first on the bus, so it’s his dubious honor to investigate while the rest of them huddle outside in the unseasonably warm Indian summer.

For the first few harrowing seconds, the bus is silent. Too silent. Poots starts at the sound of a string of rapid-fire French emerging from the bus.  Moments later, Zimmermann emerges from the bus with the top of his shirt up over his nose and holding a hideously stinky take-out box at arms' length.

A very familiar take-out box.

Poots knows _exactly_ who that take-out box belongs to. No one could possibly blame him this time.

“Poots, you make stink again?” Tater calls out.

The rest of the team joins in a chorus bemoaning “Poo-oots!”

Was this… Did they… Were they _seriously_ …

“’Ey, guys, take it easy on the rookie.” Guy puts his arm around Poots’ shoulders, commanding the attention of the rest of the team. “’Ee’s done us all a favor. Did you really want to take the bus back to Providence tonight when the Back Bay is calling our names? We’ll hit the bars while the bus airs out for a few hours. First round’s on Poots!”

_X_

**4.**

Jack Zimmermann is a lucky man. His girlfriend makes the most amazing baked goods, and for some reason, she’s been treating the Falconers to delicious pie after delicious pie lately. It’s been heaven.

Poots sinks his fork into the maple sugar crust. Crispy, light, airy. Perfect. His fork moves through the warm apple filling as if it were butter. An ingredient in no short supply in this pie. He closes his eyes as he slips the fork between his teeth. Rapture.

Poots knows how to savor a pie, unlike the rest of the barbarians on this team. While he’s been enjoying this pie the way it deserves to be appreciated, half the team practically inhaled the rest of it. And now Thirdy is eyeing the last slice.

“You don’t want to eat that,” Poots warns him.

“Oh believe me, I do.” Thirdy grins devilishly as he scoops up the last slice onto a plate.

“Jack hasn’t had any yet. You know how he gets when we don’t leave him any pie.”

“He never needs to know it was me.” Thirdy shoots Poots a significant look.

Poots checks his watch. “He’ll be here any minute. You know he’s never late.”

“Then I’d better eat fast.”

“You’re skating on thin ice.”

“My favorite kind.” Thirdy wolfs down the slice and places his plate and fork on the table next to Poots. “Zimmermann, nice to see you.” He waves at Jack on his way out of the Nook, shooting Poots a smirk over his shoulder.

Jack takes two steps into the Nook before stopping short. He glances at the empty pie pan then at Poots’ pie-covered fork frozen in mid-air before letting loose an inarticulate mournful sob.

Poots drops his fork with a clatter. “Jack, no, it’s not what it… I’ve been nursing it… It wasn’t…”

Thirdy swings back into the Nook before Poots can pull an explanation together. “Poots, I’m ashamed of you! You know that was Jack’s favorite flavor!”

_X_

**5.**

Jack Zimmermann is a lucky man. It’s obvious to anyone who sees him with his boyfriend how in love they are. Poots is glad Jack trusted him enough to come out to him, although he has the sneaking suspicion he may have been the last Falconer Jack had told.

Of course, Poots hadn’t exactly helped things when he’d told Jack that he thought his boyfriend was cute. Honestly, he’d only been trying to compliment him. There was no need for Jack to look at him that way.

Bitty _was_ cute. And he seemed pretty cool. And ever since Jack had come out to the whole team, he sure was spending a lot of time hanging around the team. It must be nice for Jack to have his boyfriend around. Like, _all_ the time. It’s not like _some_ people are eternally alone or anything.

It’s not that Poots is bitter, but… OK, he’s bitter. Just a little. Particularly when _certain_ people have to be so damn giggly and lovey-dovey all the time.

At least Poots isn’t the only one who feels this way. Mike is always down for a bitch session. He’s surprisingly OK. Kind of funny, even though he’d apparently rather be interning for the PawSox than the Falcs (Mike’s a baseball fan. Ridiculous. One of these days, Poots will convert him to hockey fandom). Anyway, it’s nice to have someone close to Poots’ age to hang out with.

“JACK LAURENT ZIMMERMANN, you give him back!”

Oh great. The happy couple is back. Mike rolls his eyes so far back in his head they should probably have gotten stuck.

“Give who back?”

“You know _exactly_ who I mean, Jack!”

Jack bursts the players’ lounge panting and heaving. There is no way to disguise the joy on his face. He’s sickeningly in love, the lucky bastard.

“Poots! Think fast!” Something brown and soft hits Poots square between the eyes.

Poots takes a moment to examine whatever this thing is. Some kind of floppy bunny with a white puffy tail. Cute. What in the hell is it doing at the practice facility?

Bitty enters the lounge moments later, not looking the slightest bit ruffled. “Jack…” he starts warningly.

“I didn’t do it. You see?” Jack gesticulates at Poots. “Poots took him!”

Oh for God’s sake!

Mike smirks at Poots. “I think I have a class to get to.” Not helping. Traitor.

Bitty stands with his hands on his hips and affixes Poots with an assessing glare for what feels like an eternity before spinning on Jack. “Jack. Laurent. Zimmermann. That is the _biggest_ lie you’ve ever told me!” Bitty strides over to Poots and plucks the bunny from his hands. “How dare you blame this poor, sweet boy for _your_ crime of stealing Señor Bun!” He cradles Poots’ chin with his left hand and gently but forcibly turns his head toward Jack. “Look at him! Look at his face, Jack! That is the face of an angel.”

Mike snorts and waggles his fingers at Poots as he heads out the door.

Jack hangs his head in shame. “Sorry, Bits.”

Poots looks from Jack to Bitty. This is the guy who went from rookie to A in months. The Falcs’ leading scorer. Cowed by, well, this little guy.

“Oh, I don’t want you to apologize to me, I want you to apologize to him. To Poots. Oh dear _lord_ , that is almost as bad as ‘Shitty.’” Bitty spins to face Poots. “Do you actually like that?”

Poots shrugs.

“Apologize to Poots,” Bitty concludes.

“Sorry, Poots,” Jack mumbles.

“I can’t _hear_ you!”

“Sorry, Poots!” Jack’s voice rings out.

Having Bitty hanging around the Falconers all the time might not be so bad after all.

_X_

**+1**

Poots is walking on air. He scored the game-winning goal tonight, he didn’t stumble over his answers once in the post-game presser, and now he’s going out to party with the guys. There’s not much that could make tonight any more perfect.

“Hey.” Mike glances up from his phone as Poots walks out of the locker room. He pushes away from the wall, sticks his phone in his back pocket and looks up at Poots through his lashes in that really cute way of his and…

Is Poots blushing? Poots is blushing, isn’t he? _Get it together, Poots!_

“Hey, ‘sup?” Poots tries his level best for casual airiness. “You meeting somebody?”

“Yeah, you, you doofus.” Mike slings an arm about Poots’ shoulder. “I’ve gotta buy a drink for the game-winning scorer.”

…

Poots smirks when Mike sets a Sprite in front of him at the bar. “ _This_ is the drink you buy the game-winning scorer?”

Mike shrugs as he settles into the chair across from him. “I didn’t say it would be an alcoholic drink. Your teammates might be comfortable with underage drinking, but if I want to get into a good graduate program, then I damn well don’t want a misdemeanor on my record. I’ll buy you a beer in… oh… two years.” He takes a long, purposeful slurp of his own beer and smiles a shit-eating grin at Poots. “This is a great beer, by the way.”

“You _suck_ ,” Poots pronounces.

“Poots! Nice goal!” Tater ruffles his hair as he passes by.

Poots fist-bumps the Russian then turns back to Mike. “So, grad school. Did you decide where you’re going to apply?” Did that come off as needy? He hopes that didn’t sound too needy.

“MIT and Harvard, _obviously_ ,” Mike ticks off on his fingers.

“Obviously,” Poots repeats. He’d never known someone before who would say it was obvious that they were applying to Harvard.

“And Yale’s got a great Econometrics program, arguably even better than Harvard’s, but Harvard has the edge in proximity to the Sox,” Mike continues.

“Nice shot, Poots.” Jack smiles warmly at Poots as he and Bitty approach their table.

“I am baking you a boysenberry pie tomorrow, Mister Game Winner!” Bitty promises. Jack has one arm around Bitty’s waist, and Bitty has a hand in Jack’s back pocket.

Poots used to feel embarrassed by their public displays of affection, but he’s warmed up to them. “You keep Zimmermann away from my pie until I’ve had at least the first forkful!” He shouts after them. “Sorry.” He turns back to Mike. “MIT, Harvard and Yale. And Yale’s got a better program than Harvard, but Harvard’s closer to the Red Sox,” he prompts Mike.

“Right, but MIT has the top Econometrics program in the country _and_ is close to Boston, so…”

“…So MIT’s your top choice,” Poots finishes Mike’s thought.

“It is, but I’ll be up against all the best Econ majors in the country.” Mike fiddles with his napkin. Poots has never seen him look so vulnerable.

Without entirely realizing what he’s doing, Poots leans forward and grabs Mike’s hand. “Dude, you’re the smartest person I’ve ever met. And you’re interning with a professional hockey team – that’s gotta make your application stand out, and give you some good stories for the interview, am I right?”

Mike smiles gratefully at Poots.

“Poots! Nice one tonight! I’m buying your next round!” Snowy points a finger at Poots.

“Nice goal,” Tim adds. They’re holding hands and smiling broadly. Poots is happy for them. They’ve both been a lot more relaxed since they came out to the team and to management.

“So MIT’s your top choice, and Harvard and Yale are your backups,” Poots continues. “Anywhere else?”

“Definitely Berkeley,” Mike nods, “And I’m 90 percent sure I’m going to apply to Stanford as well. Its Econometrics program is not actually as strong as the others’ but I figure the name recognition and networking opportunities would help me in my career.”

“Berkeley and Stanford? In California?” Poots pulls his hand back involuntarily. He’d never considered that Mike might go that far away for graduate school. I mean… he’s probably being dumb. It’s not like they’re dating or anything. He doesn’t even know if the guy is into him. Obviously Mike should go to the best grad school he can get into but… Poots’ chest feels tight. He stares at his Sprite and wishes it had a shot of vodka in it instead.

Mike leans halfway across the table. “ _Obviously_ I’d rather stay on the East Coast, but my advisor…”

“Great game, Poots!” Marty pats Poots’ shoulder.

“I told you he was a great draft pick,” Thirdy winks at Poots as he and Marty head to the bar.

“Do you actually like that nickname?” Mike wrinkles his nose.

“Huh? What, ‘Poots?’” Poots turns back to Mike. Mike nods his head. “Uh, it’s grown on me.”

Mike shrugs. “Hockey players are weird.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard that baseball fans are _totally_ normal.” Poots rolls his eyes before remembering where their conversation had left off before Marty and Thirdy had interrupted them. His heart sinks all over again. “So. California.”

But then it’s Mike’s turn to take _Poots’_ hand. “I don’t want to go to California. I want to go to MIT or Harvard or Yale and drive down to Providence every weekend and for all of the home games.”

Poots looks up in surprise, his cheeks flushing.

“But my advisor tells me that I need to apply to more than three programs, at the caliber that I’m applying to,” Mike continues. “But worst-case scenario, if I don’t end up somewhere close, there’s always Skype and away games and discount flights. Did you know that both Southwest and JetBlue fly out of Oakland?”

Poots surges forward to kiss Mike. For a half a second, he worries that maybe he misread the situation and just fucked up the best thing he’s got going right now, but then Mike slides a hand around the base of his neck and Poots loses himself in Mike for he doesn’t know how long.

When they pull apart, both flushing and giggling, Poots asks “So that was okay?” It still feels almost unreal.

Mike pushes a stray strand of hair off of Poots’ forehead. “That was more than okay.” He leans forward to press their foreheads together and smiles wickedly at Poots. “I blame you, you know.”

Poots pulls back. “Huh? For what?” he asks warily.

Mike smiles, lacing their fingers together. “I was just trying to keep my head down, do my internship and get a good recommendation for grad school, and then you had to go and be so damn cute and helpless after the third preseason game.”

“I wasn’t helpless!” Poots protests.

“And then you turned out to be fun and funny and… did I mention cute?” Mike continues. He brushes his lips against Poots’. “Yeah. This is definitely your fault.”


End file.
